


Pray to God I See Headlights

by halfhardtorock



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Pre-Canon, Pre-Series, Sam-Centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-11
Updated: 2014-08-11
Packaged: 2018-02-12 19:10:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2121384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfhardtorock/pseuds/halfhardtorock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A maroon Volvo pulled up ahead of him, red lights flashing as it backed up. He darted for it.</p><p>“Hey.” The older woman said as she unrolled the window, smiling. “Not a good time for hitching.”</p><p>Sam nodded. “I didn’t have a choice.” He said, mouth wet with the rain.</p><p>She unlocked the door for him. “Get in, kid.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pray to God I See Headlights

 

 

A week before, he was moving a box of wool blankets to the loft. Dean waited below, holding the ladder still for him.

He grunted and shoved the box along the floor with his fingertips. It knocked into Dean’s spare bike tire, dislodged a stack of boxes and Dean said

“Great job, dude.” when everything came crashing down. He ducked to avoid the fall, looked back at his brother below him. Dean waved his hand. “Yeah, c’mon. We’ll clean it up next Christmas or when we move. Christ, Sammy.”

Sam looked back at the mess.

His old sleeping bag was hanging out of a spilled open crate, unfolded like a long, loose tongue. 

And then he knew he’d do it. His hands gripped the ladder as he swayed and climbed down shakily. 

 

 

He got off the bus with an armful of books: AP Bio, AP English, Hermann Hesse. The Hesse was spread open, pages folded for passages he wanted to remember. He read it as he walked to the house, avoiding the potholes and bracken puddles. 

Dean was underneath his car, legs crooked and rocking as he struggled to take the snow tires off. 

“Hey.” Sam said, dropping his books down on their broken front stoop. Dean arched around, rested his head on the ground and looked at him. “Huh. Told you that dad was leaving tonight. Don’t you have math league or something?”

Sam shrugged and sat down next to his books. He picked at the long grass growing between the sagging wood. Dean watched him and let out a short, annoyed breath. “Whatever, Sam. I’m not entertaining your ass tonight.”

 

 

But around 7:00, they were eating chicken baskets from the House of Pizza in front of the television, sharing a flat liter of root beer. Dean had taken the long way to town for dinner, through the river road to see how the new tires felt. They drove with the windows cranked down, somewhat prematurely, with the spring air still sharp and dampening the hair on their arms.

Dean spread out when he drove, one arm crooked in the window, legs loose. Sam saw every movement, saw every single thing he could. The way Dean tapped the bass out on the steering wheel. The way his arm clenched when he shifted. The mottled red in his face from the cold: red nose, cheeks. How he mouthed along with the music. 

Sam took each in like small, thoughtless gifts, photographs, peculiar, unanticipated memories.

They were eating and changing channels back and forth between the only two that had a picture when Sam turned to his brother. “Dean, can I ask you a weird question?” 

Dean picked through his greasy fries. “Is it about chicks?”

Sam pushed his plate away. “No. It’s about hunting.”

Dean shrugged, eyes on the tv. “Okay, shoot.”

Sam thought for a moment, finding the delicate phrasing. “If…you could only have three essential tools for hunting, what would they be?”

Dean hummed to himself, head cocked. “Only three?”

“Yeah.”

He put down his dinner and wiped his hands on his work jeans. “Okay. Salt, that’s obvious. Probably a small, all purpose knife…”

“Okay.” Sam agreed, hugging his knees, listening closely.

“A bible.” Dean finished, then got up, boots clunking. He turned off the tv.

“A bible? Before a gun or…infrared?” 

Dean snapped his fingers impatiently and Sam passed up his finished plate. He followed his brother into the kitchen where Dean rapped the leftovers into the trash. 

“If you’re cut off from the rest of your gear, you’re gonna want to play defense. And salt, a knife and a King James should keep your ass alive until you can get your paws on a sawed-off or something.”

Sam leaned in the doorway and watched his brother roll up his sleeves and rinse out their cups. He waited morbidly for Dean to ask him why, _why do you ask, Sammy?_ He wondered what he would say. He almost hoped it would happen. Maybe he’d just open his mouth and let the flood out. He was good with words. He could explain himself. 

But Dean was onto other things. “We should take the rifles out to the lot tomorrow and practice sighting.” 

Sam shrugged. It was easier than lying. 

 

 

He was in the slushy grey light of 5:30 am, standing in the driveway and roping his sleeping bag down with cold fingers. His breath was white and he was shivering uncontrollably. But he knew it was adrenaline cascading over him, not the chill. He knew a lot of things, and his brain kept cycling through them:

_This is adrenaline, not cold._  
Dean sleeps more soundly at this time than midnight.  
He won’t hear you.  
The logging trail in the north comes out along Route 2.  
It’s a two day walk.  
Dean will be looking further south by then.  
A 0 below bag will be warm enough, this time of year.  
It’s only adrenaline, not the cold. 

He stepped carefully along the rocky, leaf-strewn edge of the property, peering back to make sure he wasn’t leaving boot-prints. The trees opened beside an ancient NO TRESPASSERS sign, the long, rutted trail snaking into the pines. It was darker beneath the trees. 

He walked with his jaw set against the dark, the swiss army knife in his jean’s pocket jostling cold against his leg. 

 

 

All day long he walked and looked over his shoulder. But he didn’t see another soul. The sun reached high and perfect, left the woods dizzyingly hot for a brief hour, every new leaf tender and yellow-green in the light. He stopped and ate a sandwich, took small sips from his bottle of water. He wanted to make it to the road on one bottle so he wouldn’t have to use the iodine. It was too early for mosquitoes, but black flies hovered in clouds and he found himself trotting ahead to avoid them. His pack was light enough. His mind felt clear with the exercise. He felt the quaking thrill of moving. Traveling. Being alone.

In the deepening dark-blue of early evening, he heard the rumbling sound of an ATV behind him, so he stepped off the trail and crouched in a sloping bush. Sam watched it fly past, a flash of orange flare and cammo. 

He walked on for another hour and then he couldn’t see much but the fuzzy, ghostly white of birches in the darkness. He laid out his sleeping bag in a ditch, ate half a sandwich bag of Dean’s trail mix, savoring every single chocolate chip.

He laid still, eyes wide and unseeing, and listened to the night noises around him: trees creaking in the wind. A dog barking, echoing from far away. Nightbirds rustling, grousing. 

Dean was looking for him. Sam could see him, throwing open the back door and bellowing his name out into the neighbor’s field. He could imagine him skidding through the house, calling out to him. Sam blinked back the image. He could think about it only until the point he imagined the way Dean would _feel_ , and then it was impossible, the same way it was impossible for him to imagine dying or failing high school. It made the world tighten on his throat. 

He swallowed. He had to talk himself into sleeping. He dozed lightly, waking when the wind changed and blew his bangs away from his forehead. Then he burrowed into his bag, breathing the humid air there. He slept. 

 

 

At the highway, it was raining, almost sleeting. Black tires thundered past him, jetting water into his side. He hunched over, jacket collar up, head tipped down so the water wouldn’t run over his eyes. 

He thumbed. He hadn’t really thought out this part of this leg. The plan had gone: Walk to Route 2. Hitchhike to Skowhegan. Catch a bus to the coast. Then catch the train out of state. 

He hadn’t prepared himself for the actual hitchhiking, for the misery of the rain, the passing cars and wary drivers. For the knowledge that his sleeping bag would be drenched, his sandwiches sodden. His boots squeaked, puddles of rainwater pooling at his foot’s arch.

He thought about Dean. He thought about Dean and sitting down at the table in the kitchen, hefting his boots off as Dean grumbled about stupid ideas and flighty little brothers. 

 

 

A maroon Volvo pulled up ahead of him, red lights flashing as it backed up. He darted for it. 

“Hey.” The older woman said as she unrolled the window, smiling. “Not a good time for hitching.” 

Sam nodded. “I didn’t have a choice.” He said, mouth wet with the rain.

She unlocked the door for him. “Get in, kid.”

He looked into the open door, uncertain. “I don’t want to get your car all wet-“

She laughed, brushing back her fuzzy grey hair. “It’s okay. I kind of expected that. Don’t worry about it.”

He climbed in and shut the door, shivering. She watched traffic over her shoulder and then shifted, drove back onto the road.

“What’s your name?” She asked, turning NPR down until ‘All Things Considered’ was just a soft murmur through the car. 

“Sam.” He said, politely. “What’s yours?”

“Molly. I’m going as far as Bangor. Where should I drop you?” 

“Oh. Skowhegan.” He said. 

“Well, that works out just fine.” She smiled again. “Are you cold? You must be chilled.” She turned the heat up. 

“Yeah.” He said. “Thank you.”

They drove in silence. He felt stupid, just sitting there, cupping his arm. “Uh. What do you do for a living?” He asked finally.

“I work part-time at the University of Maine, part-time at a natural foods store.” 

“Oh.” He said. He struggled with something else to say.

“You go to college, Sam?” She asked. 

“Not yet. I’m still in high school. Senior, in high school.”

She nodded. “Are you a good student?”

He shrugged, smiling. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

“Good. A solid education is important. Look at me. I didn’t go to school until I was in my early 30s, and though I’m an adjunct professor, sometimes I think, if I just got it all behind me when I was younger, I’d be teaching something I enjoy more, making more money, and having more free time.”

He nodded, listening. 

She sighed to herself, turned the heat down.

They were quiet again. 

“Uh. Why’d you pick me up?” 

She laughed then, turning NPR back up. “Oh, because I once made a promise, when I was 14 and standing on the side of a road in Georgia, that when I had a car, I’d pick up every single hitchhiker I ever saw, if I could only get a ride right. Now. And then some farmer pulled up in a pickup.” Her laugh fell away into a chuckle. “I take it as a spiritual responsibility.”

Sam smiled, looked out the window. “Well, lucky for me, then.”

 

 

He took a greyhound all the way to Portsmouth, NH. He slept most of the way, slumped down, the top of his rucksack tucked safely under his arm. When he woke up, they were backing into the terminal, and a kid with headphones on was looking down at him from the seat in front. 

Sam yawned and looked at him cautiously. The kid raised a brow and said, loud, over his headphones. “You snore, dude.”

Sam blushed, tried to scoff. But nothing came out but a string of defensive half-words, and the kid just turned away. He rode his bag up onto his shoulders and snapped it around his waist. His face burned and he frowned, standing awkwardly beneath the overhanging and waiting for the driver to open the doors.

 

 

The streetlights were coming on. He got off the bus and crouched down beside a blue mailbox to tie his boot. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw sleek black. Chrome.

He stayed ducked down and watched, horrified, as a black Impala slunk past, turned left at the stoplight and disappeared behind a line of brick shops. 

His heart burned a hole in his chest. He got up, numb and uncertain, and looked around for a place to go. Where to go? 

_Did he see him?_

He ran across the street and down the block. He almost knocked into a couple coming out of a yarn shop.

“Where’s the train station?!” He asked, voice high and tight.

The lady looked confused, angry, but the man just pointed down the street, promptly. “Go down. Take a right. You’ll see it.” He said.

“Thankyou.” He breathed, and ran on. 

“Watch where you’re goin’!” The lady yelled after him.

He ran all the way, three blocks. He was sick thinking about it, how he’d get there and the impala would be parked out front, Dean just waiting for him with his fists stuffed into his leather jacket. 

“God.” He blurted out to himself.

 

 

But the train station lot was nearly empty, and Sam hopped onto the south-going train, just before it left. 

“Ticket?” The conductor asked him at the door.

“I…can I buy one from you?” He asked, breathing sloppy, exhausted.

The guy nodded. “How far you going?” 

“As far as this goes.” He said back. The guy shrugged, shaking his head. 

“Chicago sound good to you?” He asked. Sam nodded desperately. The guy ripped one off for him and Sam fumbled for the cash.

“When do we leave?” He asked, before walking back into the train. 

“Right now, kid.” The guy said, slamming the door shut and latching it.

 

 

He shook, over stimulated, until the train jerked once and began to move. Then he sat back, relieved. His breathing loosened, slowed. Tiredness crept up on him and he dropped his head back into the headrest.

He was almost calm, almost sure of himself, when he looked out the window. 

They were moving through the trees, over a ridge, and then beside a long stretch of gravel road, grey with sea fog. He gasped in disbelief. 

The Impala was tearing over the road, gunning it, catching up with the train and then speeding along side for the raw, lucid ten seconds before the train arced left and off into the woods. 

Sam got up, face somber. He walked stiffly down the aisle, locked himself into the bathroom and puked his guts out. 

 

 

He woke up when the train ground to a stop, the wheels screeching. He looked over at the woman across from him, who was getting up and looking too. 

“What’s happening?” He asked her.

“The train’s splitting. Half will go to South Carolina, half to Chicago.”

“Why?” Sam looked around at the people who were sleeping through it. 

“I guess something happened to the train to South Carolina. Sometimes that happens. We weren’t even supposed to stop here. And now I’m gonna be late for my plane, damnit.”

Sam grabbed his rucksack and slung it on. “So, this train’s on the schedule to just go to Chicago?” He asked quickly. 

“Yeah.” She looked up at him curiously. “Don’t worry. If you stay here, this part will keep going. It’s the back half that’ll be moving onto Charleston.”

“Great.” He said, shortly. “Uh, thanks.”

He left her staring after him and trotted back to the door between cars. He pushed it open and ran down through the next car. A conductor walked ahead of him and he flagged him down.

“What is it, kid?” The guy asked, frazzled. 

“I want to get on the South Carolina train. Can I do that?”

The guy stared at him and sighed like it was taxing for him to even consider it. “Yeah, hurry up. It’s gonna leave in 5 minutes.”

He jogged to the back and got in and seated. “All right, everybody. Sorry for the delay. We’ll be headed out in about 3 minutes or so, so get comfortable. Relax. We should be in South Carolina by early afternoon tomorrow. The snack car will be open by 5--”

 

 

It was hot, electricity buzzing in a transistor overhead when he stumbled off the train. He struggled out of his parka, then peeled off his sweaty thermal until he was down to his white undershirt. A woman in a Hawaiian patterned dress laughed as she walked by. “Hot enough for you?” she asked, teasingly. He flattened down his hair and went looking for a place to wash up. There wasn’t any sign of the Impala. 

 

 

He rinsed off in a men’s bathroom, bent over the sink and splashing his face. Then he dunked his whole head underneath and shook his hair off, water cool and dripping down his back, along his spine. He leaned down once more to take a long drink.

He walked around Charleston in a daze, looking for something to eat. He bought a cup of tomato soup at a café, a roll, and stood outside, shoulder against the brick wall, and ate quickly, ravenously. It made sweat stand out on his forehead, his drying bangs stick.

He thought about all the things he would do, all the places he would go. Hours at bookstores and libraries. Romantic coffee shop visits that would end with him making a beautiful girl with a battered copy of Jane Austen laugh. He smirked at himself. He imagined getting a job as a dishwasher in a small diner, grinning dimples at the waitresses. Doing laundry with the college students, Hesse folded open on his knee.

 

 

He searched out the young people and found himself stepping into the cool, air-conditioned library at Johnson and Wales. He felt clumsy with his rucksack on his back, until a librarian beckoned him over and asked “Are you a freshman, dear?” 

He nodded dumbly, without even considering saying no.

She waved him to come around the desk. “You’re gonna have to leave your bag up front. I’ll put it in the back office. You just tell whoever’s up here when you need to go that Merrill put it in the back office, on the outgoing table. Okay?” 

He nodded and unlatched the waist belt and then dragged it off. She took it with an “oomph.”

“Heavy.” She grunted. 

“Thanks.” He said, and stuck his hands into his jeans and walked away.

 

 

He skimmed through the literature stacks, pausing to run his fingers along the Samuel Becketts. He slid out a small, ancient copy of Blake and looked at the illustrations, inspired. 

He took it with him to a small reading room and sat down to flip through it quietly.

He was humming to himself, along to Echoing Green, when the neons blinked on and a girl in pigtails came in, groaning, dropping an over-filled backpack down in one of the chairs. 

He sat up straight, mouth fallen open.

“Hey.” She said, scratching her arm. “You in the geology study group?”

He looked at her for a moment and then nodded. “Uh, yeah?”

She unzipped her bag and struggled out an oversized textbook, thumping it down on the table. Blake jumped closed. 

“I actually bought this fucking thing. I know, no one else is gonna. But we’ll need it for the midterm, so whatever. We can all share it.” She sat down, looking at him. “What’s your name again?”

“Sam um, Blake.” He said, holding out his hand. She ignored it. 

“Great. Here comes the others.” A few students came in, sat around the table with sighs, notebooks flicked open. 

“Okay. Sam. Where should we start.” The pigtailed girl asked, shoving over the textbook. He looked down at it, and then carefully turned the pages to chapter one, Practical Theory of Geological Studies. 

“At the beginning, huh?” He said. Everyone groaned. He smiled and looked around. “Who wants to read first?”

 

 

He retrieved his backpack, and the pigtailed girl, Emma, waited for him in the foyer. She looked him over when he walked back. “What’re you carrying that around for?” She asked, smiling affectionately. 

“I haven’t moved into my place yet so uh…It’s actually not ready. I guess…they have to paint it or something.” 

She nodded. “I hate that. They were supposed to be done last week before the spring term, but they’re still not done, huh?” 

He shrugged. 

“Well, where you staying?” 

He looked over at her, and she was twirling a pen through her hair. “I thought about getting a motel room or someth-“

She scoffed. “Oh my God, Sam. Come stay with me and my roommates. Diane has a air mattress.”

“You sure?” He asked.

“Yeah. And this isn’t like, a pick up line, okay?”

“Okay.” He agreed.

 

 

They made tacos together, Sam and Emma and her three roommates, Travis, Diane and Maggie. Maggie was a source of great amusement. She didn’t cook, ever, and she screamed when the cheese grater flipped out of her hand and clattered into the knife stand, sending knives flinging onto the floor. Sam laughed so hard, he lost coordination and nearly dropped his cutting board. Dean used to tell him that _if I ever needed to disarm you, Sam, I’d just tickle you until you couldn’t hold onto anything anymore_. 

“Oh my god! I killed the fucking guacamole!” Maggie said shrilly, watching the spilled bowl ooze out onto the counter. Sam rushed to save it. “I’m out, motherfuckers. Make your own damn dinner!” She said, throwing down her apron and leaving the room.

Travis dropped his head onto his arms, over the peppers he was chopping, eyes tearing up, he was laughing so hard.

 

He slept so deeply that night, he didn’t even wake up until 10, when Maggie crouched in front of him, slammed down a cup of coffee and said “Time to wake up, lazybones.”

 

He ate scones that Diane brought home from the bakery where she worked, and sat with Emma for an hour, out at the makeshift table set up on blocks on the fire escape. 

“Thanks for letting me stay.” He said, sighing.

“Yeah. You can take a shower too, before you go. You’re…kind of ripe.” 

“Oh.”

“It’s okay. It’s nice. You smell like my boyfriend.”

They sat and drank their coffee.

“Thanks for making our study group feel so…cohesive. I’m glad you’re in it.” She said. 

He nodded, averting his eyes. “Yeah...”

 

He got on a train that night for Virginia. 

 

 

He was unpacking his rucksack in Charlottesville, surveying the rain and travel damage. He threw away the old sandwiches, frowning. He sat on the steps of the station, re-rolling his clothes and stuffing them back into the bag. He was almost finished when he noticed the bible he’d forgotten to pack. He picked it up, held it for a moment, thinking about where he could stuff it so it wouldn’t get wet if it rained again.

And then a woman knelt down beside him. “Hello, brother.” She said softly. 

He looked up at her, surprised. She was leaning close to him, her eyes warm, her two children standing beside her, little hands on her shoulders. They were all wearing black, long sleeves. The woman and her girl were in long skirts and the boy in slacks. Her head was covered with a kerchief and her smile was gentle. 

“Hi.” Sam said.

“Are you on your own, brother?” She asked, tilting her head. He blinked. 

“I guess so.” He said.

She smiled, wide and beautifully, and her kids grinned too. “I welcome you to come with us, to the dinner meeting.” She said, standing up. He looked around. 

“I don’t think…you’ve mistaken me for-“

She shook her head like she was shaking off a cloud. “I know you’re not a brother of our congregation, just a traveler, passing through. But God leads us to one another. Please, we have more than enough.” 

He looked down at the bible in his hands and began to disagree when the little girl chirped in.

“There’s peach cobbler!” 

Sam shrugged. “Okay…” He said.

 

 

One of the church fathers, in dark blue wool and long white beard, sat near him and scrutinized him through wire-rimmed glasses. Sam stared at his meatloaf, feeling odd in his wrinkled dress shirt.

“What is the nature of your faith, son?” The man asked. The others, sitting nearby, looked on. The little girl leaned over her food to see him. 

“Well, um.” He began, pushing his fork through his peas and onions. “I. Uh.”

“Speak up!” The man said, sternly.

Sam sat up straight. “I guess I-my family believes that a…a supernatural evil walks the earth, amongst us, and that we have to use a kind of uh, warfare to challenge it and fight it and defeat it.” His words stammered off into embarrassed muttering. The father looked at him closely. 

“Praise God.” He said, finally, pleasantly. 

Sam glanced up, surprised. 

The father looked on him with charitable warmth. He took a great bite of mashed potatoes. 

“There’s peach cobbler for dessert.” The father mused.

Sam bit his lip trying not to smile.

 

 

“Thank you.” He said. The woman touched her hands to his and they clasped each other. Then she let go and he leaned down to his rucksack. “Samuel. I look to those who come mysteriously into our lives for insight into God’s word. Do you have a prayer for us?” 

He froze over his bag, the little girl and her mother waiting for him. He searched through his mind desperately, coming up with Dean’s _Good bread, good meat, good God, let’s eat_. 

But he found his voice and shut his eyes and slowly recited everything he could remember: 

_And we are put on earth a little space_  
that we may learn to bear the beams of love;  
And these…uh, bodies and this sunburnt face  
Are but a cloud, and like a shady grove. 

It was the stupidest thing he’d ever said, but when he opened his eyes, she was staring at him with something that seemed more like thirst to him than anything he’d ever see. 

“Thank you.” She said quietly, and beckoned her child away with her. 

 

 

The trucker dropped him off on the sloping green hills in upper Virginia, and he walked along the road, thumbing the passing cars languidly. The whole trip began to feel as familiar as his threadbare flannel, soft around him, easy. Normal. He wasn’t in a hurry. He felt assured, even as the cars passed by, headlights blinking on as night descended. 

He was walking up a rise in the road when he saw a small, shivering fire ahead and two figures crouched around it. He walked closer, curious.

The two girls were laughing and looked up at the same time, seeing him there. One girl jumped and her friend laughed again. They took in his disheveled state, his rucksack. They had their own backpacks lying in the grass beside them. Sam looked from one to the other, at their long hair and braids and dirty jeans.

“You hitching?” One asked, amused. 

“Yeah.” Sam said, clearing his throat. “Uh. You come here often?” 

Both the girls looked at each other and burst into giddy laughter again. Sam chuckled. 

“Well, settle in, cowboy. We’re just making some spaghetti.” 

A blackened pot was in the coals, steaming. He hunkered down, removing his bag. “Thanks.”

 

 

“Min’s going into the military in three weeks.” Caitlin explained, scouring out the pot with a little water, shaking it over the coals to heat it. Sam looked over at the tiny girl who was swatting flies off her arm. 

“I know. I’m gonna look like such an elf around those burly guys at Fort Bragg.” 

Sam chuckled. “So what, one last trip together?” He asked. 

Caitlin smiled. “Yeah. We’ve been doing this since before we graduated. Every summer. It’s been really amazing.” She looked over at her friend. “It’s sad it has to end.”

Sam nodded. 

They sat in friendly silence.

“We smoked all our ganja three days ago.” Min said, nostalgically. Sam laughed.

“Yeah. Sonuvabitch, right?” 

“Yessir.” Said Min, taking the pot and sloshing the hot water into the dirt. 

 

 

He laid down near them, in his sleeping bag, and watched the stars rise. He tried to remember Dean’s conquest stories, the threesomes he bragged about off-handedly when they used to shoot the shit on the road. He tried to remember how they worked, who initiated in Dean’s stories, how he should start. He listened to the intermittent cars on the road and gathered together his nerve. 

And then he heard a soft moaning and glanced over at the girls. He blushed, hot all the way to his feet. 

_oh_ he thought. 

And then he grinned to himself. _Jesus_ , and fell asleep.

 

 

He walked all the way to a little clapboard town called Luray and stopped at a pancake house to get pancakes and coffee. He ate until his stomach ached, until the cloying, syrupy sweetness in the air made him nauseous. And then he went to the library and dug up a copy of the Hesse he had been reading, searched out his last point and read for hours. Until he was finished. By then, the sun was already setting.

 

 

The inn’s sign, tumbling into the verdant flower garden, said “LAWSON’S: AMERICAN HERITAGE SITE SINCE 1889”, which didn’t really make sense, but the librarian had directed him to it as “a very cheap, interesting place to stay”. 

At the front desk, he put down his rucksack and waited as the old woman in the back finished up a phone call and then she came out to him, smiling righteously. She opened her fraying, velvet guest book. “Samson?” She asked, accent rich and British. 

“Um, no. I don’t have a reservation.”

She looked shocked. “Well, we don’t have rooms to rent off the road.” She slammed her book shut.

“Oh-kay.” Sam said. “The librarian sent me. She said you guys always have room, and that you’re really…interesting.”

The lady calmed, brushed her book off. “Oh. Well, you’re looking for interesting?”

Sam shrugged. “Uh, sure. What do you have?”

She looked around for a moment, like she had something, something very secretive and risky to divulge. And then she bent close, gossiping. 

“In 1946, in the upstairs room off the attic, a woman hung herself. It was rumored that she was in town, waiting to tryst with her lover, but either the man scorned her, or he was caught by her husband, because he never came. She waited for three days, and then she tied a bed-sheet to the light and around her neck. They didn’t find her for another few days, and then the maid came in and she was just swinging there, toes dragging. _Completely naked_. “

Sam listened intently.

“They say she haunts that room to this day.” She finished. 

Sam stood back, thoughtful. “Well, how does she manifest? Parlor tricks? Does she move things, hide things, throw things? Does she click the latches? Turn the doorknobs? Does she actually take a solid form? Or leave any kind of…physical proof? Ectoplasm, claw marks, ashes?”

The lady stared at him. He cleared his throat and took out his credit card.

“I’ll take it.”

 

 

He was tired from reading, from being in the sun, from eating pancakes. He pulled off his clothes and in his boxers, wandered around salting the room, leaving a thick ring around the high backed bed, around the doorway. He yawned.

“Hey lady.” He said out loud. “I left the rocking chair for you, if you want it. I’m going to sleep now. Just…try not to wake me, okay?”

He fell into bed and slept soundly. 

 

 

He watched the light come up through the bare wood slates, the white sheet pulled up to his chest. He thought about eating pastries. Pie. He thought about taking a bus south again.

He showered lazily, touching his cock, thinking about the two girls shifting in their sleeping bag, their soft sounds. He got dressed in the cool air, feeling horny, happy, reverential. He opened the door, kicked it wide, and dragged out his rucksack. 

 

 

Dean was standing in the hallway like he’d just climbed the stairs, stunned when he looked up and met eyes with his brother. Sam froze like a criminal, rucksack in his hand. They stared at each other, breathless.

Dean looked like he’d kiss him, cry, but he didn’t. 

He grimaced and threw his fist into Sam’s face.

 

 

He landed hard on his shoulder, let out a surprised cry, and then Dean was over him, hammering, fist blunt and white and breaking Sam’s lip, blinding him, making him wail and struggle. Dean climbed him, held him down with tight knees, a clawed hand to his chest. 

“You fucker. You little _fucker_!” Dean snarled, his ring biting into the skin above Sam’s eyebrow, slamming his head into the wood floor and jarring his teeth together. Sam threw up his palms, tried to block his face, but Dean beat his hands, hit whatever he could reach, his face red and strained. 

There was a pealing cry, and Sam reeled, saw pink skirts flying. “I’m calling the police!” a woman yelled.

His jaw. His mouth. His neck. He felt the fist crack through his teeth and he screamed out an explanation, the only thing he could think of

“I’m going to college, Dean, I’m going to college!”

 

 

They rolled away from each other before the police came. Sam cupped his hand over his mouth, touching his fingers along his teeth. Searching. Wet and warmth dripped against his hand, but nothing was knocked out or loose. It just felt like it.

Dean was panting on the floor, holding his wrist, kicking.

“I broke my hand. _Fuck_!”

Sam edged over to him, pain so big it made him see black shadows, made him cry helplessly. 

“Fuck!” Dean bellowed, voice hoarse. 

 

 

They shared a hospital room. Sam’s right eye was like hamburger, the swell raw and open. He couldn’t see shit. He spoke mostly to himself.

“You knew I was gone right away. Did you notice my sleeping bag was missing?”

Silence.

“How did you know to go to Portsmouth?”

He heard Dean’s quick intake. “You saw me. You saw me all the way back in Portsmouth?”

“I watched you race the train.”

He waited, listened for anything. Silence.

“I got so sick that night, man-“

“If you don’t want me to kill you, Sammy, you better shut the _fuck up_.” Dean said, voice high, tight.

Sam nodded, throat closed. He heard the doctor come in and sigh. “What a fine pair you are…Jesus Christ.”

 

 

Dean’s good hand dug into his arm bruisingly tight as he guided Sam out of the hospital and to the car. Sam jogged to keep up, tripping. 

“Can you drive, on morphine?” Sam asked in the car. He jumped when Dean grabbed the nape of his neck and squeezed, fingers digging into the soft skin behind his ear. 

“Dean.” He breathed.

“Sam.” Dean said back, voice so sad. His hand kneaded his neck. 

“It’s okay.” Sam promised stupidly.

“Why would you do this to me?” Dean whispered thickly. Sam could hear him crying, low and miserable. And then he couldn’t help it. He flailed for the door handle and dry heaved, choking.

“Oh, shit Sammy. Christ. Wait a second. Lemme-“ And Dean shoved open his door and ran around to him.

 

 

“I got into Stanford.” He said as Dean drove all night. He couldn’t see him, but he could always feel what Dean was thinking, how tense he was. Sam assessed him. Felt the coldness, the distrust.

“Dean, I got-“

“I heard you.” Dean said shortly. “I just...when did you apply for college?”

“I did it by myself…I didn’t even think I’d get in.”

Dean was silent except for a heavy, weary sigh. 

“I’m-“ _sorry_ he almost said, instinctively. But he swallowed it back, because he didn’t like to lie to Dean. “You gotta know. I _had_ to do this.”

Dean laughed low and mocking. “Oh, you little shit-“

“Dean. Goddamn it. You think I just…would I do something like this for no reason? Leave without telling you? Miss two weeks of school? You really fucking think I’m that goddamn selfish? Stupid?” His voice rose high, frustrated. He sounded so young, and that made him angrier.

“I don’t know, kiddo.” Dean said, sarcastically. “I never would have thought so before.”

“What do you think I am?” Sam seethed. “Really. Fucking tell me. What do you think?”

“I think you’re spoiled, Sammy. I think you take everything, everyone for granted-“

Sam punched the glove box. 

“You hurt my fucking car-“

“I’m not spoiled, I’m _sheltered_! I’m fenced in, by both you and Dad, and you treat me like I’m still this… _baby_ you need to pull out of the fire. I’m not a fucking baby!” 

Dean laughed. “Right. Listen to yourself.”

His eyes burned and he gasped. “You’ll never get it. Why I needed to do this. I didn’t even think I could…I got that acceptance letter and I thought I’d die. That, if I left, I’d die.”

Dean listened, quiet.

“I’ve never been alone, Dean.” He said mournfully, pressing his trembling hand against his eye. 

 

 

They drove through the morning, and the swelling went down. Maryland was blurry, impressionistic, green and sheeting rain. He crossed his arms over his chest and finally, finally drifted into sleep.

He woke up and could see Dean clearly, sitting beside him and quietly eating a hamburger. He tossed a loose paper bag onto Sam’s lap and he unwrapped his own cheeseburger and choked it down. 

“You tired?” He asked, swallowing.

Dean shrugged. “Not yet.” 

He picked at his fries sullenly. “Does dad know?” 

Dean shook his head. “Nope.” 

Sam bit his lip, turned away.

“I’m not gonna tell him either. He doesn’t need to know about this little adventure, okay?”

Sam nodded.

Dean threw his leftover bag, crumpled in the back seat. He took a sip of his milkshake and drove them out onto the highway.

“So.” He said, loud. “What was it like?”

Sam looked back at him. “What?”

“Your trip.”

He huffed. “You want to hear about my trip.”

Dean shrugged. “Yeah, sure. What the hell did you do for two weeks, kiddo?”

“I…met a lot of girls.” Sam said.

Dean raised an eyebrow. “You get laid?”

Sam snorted. “No. But I watched some lesbians get laid.”

Dean laughed, real and amused. “Wow.”

“Yeah.”

The windshield wipers shifted back and forth. Dean sighed, wearied. 

“This fall, huh?” He said.

“Yeah. I’m supposed to be there September 3rd for orientation.”

Dean shook his head. “Oh Sammy,” He said, sorrowful. “I don’t think Dad’s gonna let you go.”

 

 


End file.
